


Before Sunrise

by Lisafer



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, Forum: Goldenlake, Peculiar Pairings Ficathon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The darkest hour is just before dawn, and Eiralys finds someone to make it easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before Sunrise

The palace infirmary was a place that Eiralys hated. It carried a sharp, stinging smell of herbs and it was much quieter than the living quarters she was accustomed to. She preferred the airy breezes of her tower window, looking out over the royal gardens, silent after the days of clanging of steel against steel, where the knights and guards fought immortals and men alike.

But it was the infirmary where she stayed, holding her cross-stitching limply on her lap while she watched the Chief Healer work with men and women in green robes. His voice was low, and she could not hear what he was saying, as much as she strained. She could not read his lips, either. Not that she’d ever been good at that particular skill.

“You’re tired, darling, and it’s only an hour or two until dawn,” her mother said softly, coming over to her and placing a cool hand on her cheek. “You should go back to our rooms and try to get some sleep, like your sisters.”

Sunarine had taken the little ones to bed shortly after sundown, so long ago. At that point, the infirmary had overflowed with injured guards and soldiers, but their world was narrowed in focus; only one bed mattered, only one wounded man.

Their mother had, of course, helped the palace healers sort through the injuries. She had enough skill at a warrior’s bedside to know which kinds of wounds required the most attention. Eiralys, at sixteen, had the choice to remain with her sisters, in the small waiting area Duke Baird provided, or to help her mother. 

She chose to wait, as the smell of blood and grime made her queasy. 

“I hope you never marry a knight,” Lady Vivenne had commented, not unkindly, before bustling off to assist wherever she could.

Lady Vivenne was the ideal wife of a knight, Eiralys knew. She was practical and efficient, and was able to kiss the bloody, mangled fingers of a soldier in need of comfort. She did not flinch at gory sights or fouler smells, the way Eiralys wanted to. 

“I hope I don’t either,” Eiralys had murmured, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. She’d never liked the fact that her father could be called off for war. Training boys to become knights was one thing – but fighting in a war? She couldn’t handle that kind of life; knowing that her father was in another room, with healers bustling around him doing what they could to keep him alive, solidified the fact that she did not want to spend her life worrying about her husband.

She stood slowly, rolling her head from side to side to work out the kinks of having sat in place, bent over her needlework for the better part of the night. “Will you send for me when father wakes?” she asked her mother, the next time she was in sight.

“Of course,” Vivenne answered. She kissed Eiralys’s cheek, and the girl was overcome with the smell of lilacs that she always associated with her mother. It was her favorite scent, and it reminded her of their close-knit family.

“He’ll wake, won’t he?” she asked meekly, searching her mother’s worn face.

“Yes.” There wasn’t the teeniest bit of doubt in her tone. “Duke Baird is the best in the realm; he says your father will be fine, and that means he’ll be fine.” She lowered her voice, as she led Eiralys away from the infirmary. “I was worried that he would lose his arm entirely, but they were able to save it. We don’t know yet if he’ll recover full use, though.”

“Goddess help him,” Eiralys murmured, hugging Lady Vivenne. As she pulled away, a groan from one of the beds closest to the door caught her attention. A young man winced in pain, trying to sit up. 

“I should go to him,” her mother said serenely. 

“I will,” Eiralys said, in a moment of compassion. “I’m not as worn out as I appear, and I should help, as well.”

“It’s not pretty work,” her mother warned her.

“But it has to be done by someone,” she replied with a small shrug of the shoulders. “The someone might as well be me.”

Lady Vivenne kissed her forehead, murmuring how proud she was, and led her back into to infirmary. Instead of the circle of chairs near the duke’s office, she was taken to a small dresser. “You can leave your cross-stitching here,” she was told. 

Eiralys donned a white robe – to denote her as a helper, as much as to keep her own clothes clean – and tied her hair into a lover’s haste knot, then made her way back to the man who had been groaning.

“C-Can I do anything to ease your pain, sir?” she asked hesitantly, kneeling beside his bed so she could be at eye-level. He had bitten his lip so hard that it was bleeding, and she wiped the blood away with one of the cloths she had put in the pockets of her over-robe. 

“There are men worse off than me,” he said, wincing. His chest was wrapped - perhaps his ribs had been broken? – and his arm was in a sling. 

She wished, for one brief moment, that it were her father here and this young man in the room where all the lethal injuries were being taken care of. Realizing how horrible that thought was, she took his hand in hers. “I can get you willow bark tea, at least,” she offered.

He nodded once, wincing a bit as he did so. Eiralys looked to guidance from another healers’ assistant, vowing that she would make sure that there was always tea for anyone, so long as she was in the infirmary – whether she was helping the injured or waiting for news of her father. Once it was prepared, she took a mug back to the man.

“Are you a palace soldier?” she asked softly. She sat on the bed, facing him. 

He smiled wryly. “A knight. Paxton of Nond.”

The Nonds were only the most prominent non-ducal house in all of Tortall. Eiralys flushed. “I’m not yet out in court,” she explained. She was supposed to have had her debut the past spring, after her birthday, but the war began and everything changed. 

“I don’t look like an impressive knight, I know,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against his pillow. “And I’d rather you didn’t recognize me, as it would mean that I’m spending my time away from the fighting, courting pretty young ladies.”

The fact that he had implied she was pretty did not go over her head, but it would be improper to react to a compliment given so indirectly. “How long have you been a knight?” she asked, instead.

“Eight years.”

He didn’t look like he was twenty-six years old, she thought. “That means you trained with my father,” she said. “For part of your training, at least.”

“You’re Lord Wydon’s daughter?” His eyes snapped open and she nodded. “You look nothing like him.”

“I take after my mother,” she said casually. 

“But you have his eyebrows,” he pointed out. “Especially when you look at me incredulously like that.”

“I’m Eiralys,” she said finally, smiling.

“And I’m monopolizing you, aren’t I?” Eiralys liked his boyish brown hair, and the way it flopped over his forehead as he glanced at the other cots. 

“Most of the soldiers are sleeping,” she pointed out. “What’s keeping you awake?”

“Worries about my mother,” he replied plainly. “She didn’t want me to become a knight – every branch of the Nond family has lost a son in training or in his early years as a knight. She says it’s our particular curse for crossing a god several centuries back.”

“You must’ve crossed someone important, if it’s lasted this many generations.”

“I think it’s nonsense, though I’d never admit it to her,” he whispered. “But I don’t like to think of her worrying about me on my deathbed when it’s really just a few broken ribs and a broken collarbone.”

“We could write her a letter,” Eiralys suggested. “I don’t have parchment now, but I could bring some by later in the day.”

“That’s kind of you,” he said, closing his eyes again. “What keeps you awake, Lady Eiralys?”

“Worries about my father,” she admitted softly. “He was injured in battle earlier today, when the centaurs and hurrocks overran the palace.” It had been the most terrifying part of the unsuccessful siege on the palace that had lasted for almost five days. She was told that he had been in the nursery, the last line of defense between the immortals and the royal princes and princesses. 

Paxton whistled. “They’re tough.”

“Have you ever fought one?”

He gestured to his chest with his good arm. “A centaur’s kick is what landed me here,” he said, opening his eyes again. “How is he doing – your father?”

“Duke Baird says he will be fine,” she answered softly, “but Mother says he was absolutely mangled. He might lose his arm.”

“Right or left?”

“Right.”

Paxton frowned, saying nothing for a long moment. “He’s one of the best knights I’ve ever seen in action. He worked with me on my tilting personally.”

“He loves tilting,” she murmured, wondering what Lord Wyldon would do if he were unable to continue on as a knight. Would he return to Cavall and focus on the dogs? 

“And he’s one of the stiffest, most stubborn men I’ve ever met. I don’t mean that as an insult,” he added, when Eiralys sniffed indignantly. “If any man can face an injury and be back in top form again, it’s him. I promise you, he won’t let this injury get the better of him.”

She didn’t know why the reassurances from this man – someone she barely knew – would offer more comfort than the words of her own mother. But she trusted him.

“And perhaps when he’s better,” Paxton added, smiling boyishly, “and when I’m better, I can ask him if maybe I can begin courting his lovely daughter?”

“I think I would like that,” Eiralys said shyly. Suddenly the notion of knighthood was not filled with distasteful images of blood and war, but of bravery and heroism. And perhaps the idea of ending up married to a knight – if it were to become an option – wasn’t nearly as frightening to her. 

“But until we hear that he’s well, why don’t we talk a bit more?” he asked. “Tell me about your family.”

And thus Eiralys of Cavall spent her sixth morning in a row focused on a knight of the realm, dark rings under her bright blue eyes from her lack of sleep. But her smile was wide and her face hopeful when she received the news of her father waking just before dawn.


End file.
